


For all undone

by Nabielka



Category: Whyborne and Griffin - Jordan L. Hawk
Genre: Book 1, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 19:42:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21307550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/pseuds/Nabielka
Summary: "I was sitting here alone, missing you..."
Relationships: Griffin Flaherty/Percival Whyborne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17
Collections: New Year's Resolutions 2019





	For all undone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plumeria47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumeria47/gifts).

It was impossible to believe he had known him scarcely a fortnight.

After the asylum, he had taken his own solitude almost as a relief, knowing himself more beast than man and little suited to human interaction. The thought of such society as meals shared with laughter had seemed far away; the thought of a man’s touch further still, fraught with terror. 

The monsters in Widdershins; the confirmation of their existence in beyond his own mind, that had only cemented it. It was not until he had had confirmation otherwise that he understood that the thought that they had been products of his own madness had in some ways been a comfort. He had felt mad; he had seen men die in the course of their duties, but not like this, never like this, despair and grief could only be withstood if the world outside them held together. To find out that he had been right after all, not so overcome with despair and grief that his mind had broken under the strain, but merely exposed to something of horror beyond his conception of the world… 

That made it worse. His fellow Pinkertons had turned away from him, Elliot had walked away without a backward glance. That he had only himself to rely upon was a lesson that ought to have been learned well: years ago, the neighbours’ eyes had avoided his, the men at the train station had not smiled, Ma and Pa had said not a word to his defence or comfort.

No reason, then, that five nights of Whyborne’s presence should have made the house feel empty for his absence. Saul was curled up by his ankles. The fire was banked high. It was only that conducting cases alone still felt strange to him, that Whyborne’s presence had reminded him of the life he had had in Chicago, that seeing Rosa dead, and worse, being consumed, had made him feel alone again. 

Griffin shifted the snifter to the other hand and applied himself again to his notes. 

His own mind he didn’t trust. That same fear still lurked in the back of his mind, though they had made up notes in the Agency and he would have kept to much of the habits acquired in his training even were he not inclined to cling so to what he could of his old life. Filed them in much the same way, the envelopes labelled, though there was no one now confuse by misfiling. 

He had neglected it, these last few days, for Whyborne had been there. How strange it had been to sit again with someone, poring over the newspapers for leads, making his own notes under another man’s gaze. The fervour of it, the sudden snatching up of material previously left aside, the urgent exhortation to listen to something… 

It could have been Elliot, with whom he had at times shared both a bed and a breakfast table, and used either to talk over a current case. It could have been Glenn. 

Neither of them had ever knelt down by his side and talked of principles of science and repeatable experiments. Neither of them had gazed into otherworldly danger and asked to be placed in more of it. 

He emptied his glass. Glenn had walked into such horrors and not walked out again. The comparison was unfair. Elliot’s face had lost that amiable concern; he had dismissed him and walked away. 

He had sat in just the same way three days ago and waited for Whyborne to do likewise. Even now he could scarcely credit the nights that had followed or that he had woken of a morning to find that while Whyborne had to rise before him, he was amenable enough to letting himself be pulled back down into the shared warmth for a few minutes. Better yet, that he talked warmly of an appointment together later in the day, as though the joy of it could stretch out forever. 

Seeing him hurrying up the steps of the museum, Griffin had thought one night would be enough. He was not in the habit of thinking of pleasure as leading to attachment. The men in Chicago who found themselves sweethearts to moon over he had always considered with a goodhearted amusement. He had always kept friendly with his lovers, but that was the sum of it. They were men who fucked other men, and that was well enough: there was no call for grand sentiment.

Refilling the tumbler, he allowed himself to contemplate for a moment that it could last. Likely for reasons of whatever falling-out he had had with his father, Whyborne rented non-descript lodgings instead of residing at the grand building Griffin had more than once found a pretext to walk past. He himself had a room standing empty, the filling of which would raise no suspicions. The prospect of nights spent providing a reason for his hair to look so mussed and mornings with Whyborne’s sleepy smiles over coffee was a warming one. 

And yet…Whyborne knew thirteen languages, had all the breeding and high manners Griffin only pretended at, courage Allan Pinkerton would have admired and a level of kindness that spurred on foolish hope. How long would the latter carry them through, or worse, how long until it turned to pity? Whyborne’s voice had grounded him in the night, curling up in his arms had soothed him, but only after a time. He had been more understanding than Griffin could have dreamed, the first time. He had been no less gentle last night, but the fit had lasted almost until dawn, stealing his rest. How long could such kindness endure in the face of fits that wrecked Griffin two nights out of three? How could he trust such a secret as their relations must remain to a man who could not even retain control of his limbs in the night?

Griffin put the empty snifter down, harder than was needed, the liquid rising up the side like a wave. Whyborne had cancelled their appointment. 

During the day, the night terrors seemed very far away. They belonged to the creature he had been, before Pa had come for him, before he had learned again the simple actions and habits that made up society. The note had been delivered, and he had taken it at face value, as though he were still that boy who had never left Kansas again. Whyborne was not cruel; he would sidestep the issue if only Griffin allowed him to, except that he, the fool, had suggested rescheduling, the better to draw out the pain. 

He turned back to his notes, flicking through them with such agitation that some scattered down to the floor. A piece of paper floated over to Saul, who took no notice. Griffin, with a muffled oath, went to his knees for them, collecting them haphazardly in a pile held in one hand. 

No doubt some of his observations no longer merited consideration. In all likelihood, a few of these papers would go into the fire. Throwing himself into the work would provide distraction. The Brotherhood… more was at stake than just his pride, his foolish sentiments. 

In the morning, he would curse himself for not having gone through the papers sooner, curse himself even more strongly for having produced them in the first place. It was carelessness of the worst sort, the kind he had thought had been trained out of him by Elliot – by the Pinkertons. He had been careless back in Fallow, with Benjamin. This… he had used the case notes as a substitute for the sort of discussion he could no longer have: with Glenn, with Elliot. 

The timing was unlucky for him. A knock on the door downstairs took him from his activity. And then… what a distraction. How could a man focus on what he might have written when he barely closed the door before finding himself kissed hard, again and again? How could he have turned back to his notes and put them away, hidden that damned envelope out of sight where Whyborne would never have seen it? 

He came back upstairs to find him already disposing of his vest, movements frantic. He himself felt no less so. Or rather: Whyborne slid to his knees, and Griffin’s ability to hold on to rational thought deserted him.

The next day he was to rue it, if only until the police came.


End file.
